Three Years of Healing
by Lily Winterwood
Summary: "For he is what I am – all that is, should always be." Post-Reichenbach fic.


**Title:** Three Years of Healing  
**Characters/Pairings:** Sherlock, John, Mary Morstan. John/Mary, Sherlock/John.  
**Genre:** Romance, Drama, Angst  
**Ratings/Warnings:** PG-13 bordering R for death and bits of violence.  
**Summary:** "For he is what I am – all that is, should always be." Post-Reichenbach fic.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. I also do not own the snippets of _Love and Bullets_; that belongs to Ronald D. Moore and the _Battlestar Galactica_ folks.  
**Notes:** This fic was written while listening to "Moving On" by Michael Giacchino.

* * *

**Three Years of Healing**

_**Year One**_

Sherlock traces the letters of the therapist's report. Depression. The guilt hangs on him like a cloud.

"John," he says to the empty hotel room, but obviously no one responds – and miles away John sits barefoot in 221B, staring at the empty chair that Sherlock used to inhabit. His cane, unearthed as he started packing days ago, leans against his chair.

"What have I done?" Sherlock wonders, picturing all of it in his head. He can almost hear the footsteps recede down the stairs, as John leaves Baker Street with his belongings, leaves an empty shell of a house. Leaves home.

John's reply to the therapist's diagnosis is brief and blunt; Sherlock's lips twitch upwards when he reads it. But it brings little solace to him – in fact, it makes everything so much worse.

Sherlock grits his teeth, forces the emotions into the back of his mind, and prepares himself for a night of gruelling work. He has an entire criminal organisation to bring down, and emotions will only slow him down. Little solace that is, though; his thoughts continue to stray. He gets up, walks to the cramped bathroom, looks at himself in the sink. He barely recognises himself in the mirror – the man who looks out at him has straight, combed ginger hair and a moustache.

Sherlock loads the pistol, sets aside John's paper, looks at his watch. Half twenty. He had to go soon. He wraps the black scarf around his neck and shrugs into his leather jacket, leaving behind a darkened room.

* * *

John finds himself limping into a pub. Summer is coming; days are lengthening. It's early evening; a mild breeze stirs at the collar of his jacket. He catches sight of a young ginger-haired man leaning against a streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. He pays him no mind.

John takes his usual seat near the bar but not quite; he nurses himself a pint or two and watches the football game at the bar. The other men are cheerful, jubilant. Excited for the outcome, taking bets. Other people are chatting more quietly, laughing amongst their friends. He's never felt so alone.

The ginger-haired man enters the pub and takes a seat nearby, looking almost intently at John even as he orders a pint. John has a strong sense of déjà-vu, but he blames it all on the alcohol. He's had four already. The man finishes his drink, looks at John one last time, and leaves. John watches him go, wondering why the man looks so much like Sherlock. He must be seeing things.

John leaves the bar moments later, feeling as if he'd much rather stay at home, shut in. Alone.

* * *

The papers still call Sherlock a fraud, but he's never liked them much to begin with. Being 'dead' has its perks, though – people don't try to take pictures of him and he's not getting deerstalkers in the post.

Sherlock steals through the night with only his shadow for company. With the police against him, he has to take justice into his own hands. He finds that he doesn't like this very much – too much trigger-pulling, not enough puzzle-solving. He can't be himself; otherwise he'd just get killed.

He finds the operative and shoots him at point-blank range, repulsed at himself for doing so. The operative's found moments later; he still has incriminating evidence all over him. Drugs, guns, a blue carbuncle. Vigilante justice, the police say as they draw the chalk circle and start performing their investigation.

Sherlock's a step ahead; he's changed guns, masked his prints – everything he could think of. On the other side of the law, he thinks of what he'd look for if he was doing the investigating. He watches from a safe distance, vanishing from view as newly-promoted Detective Inspector Sally Donovan steps onto the scene. Lestrade had been demoted with the publishing of the article; unable to withstand the shame, he had resigned.

Sherlock thinks back to earlier that night, when he sat in the pub so close to John and yet so far. The limp's returned; the lines are deeper. His heart aches a little at the memory, and he scowls to see such weakness in himself. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.

But sentiment made him fall, didn't it? Sentiment made him take that leap, thinking that John would be safer without him. He did it to protect John, but all he managed to do was harm him further.

Sherlock pushes down the thoughts and leaves the crime scene as quietly as he came.

* * *

Days pass. Weeks pass. Months pass. John slowly reintegrates back into life, but each day feels automated to him. Only twenty-four hours until tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

He goes through the motions perfectly. Mycroft's secured him a more permanent position at the surgery, and every day he shows up on time and leaves on time, tending to an average number of six or seven patients. His heart isn't in it, though; his heart had been smashed against the pavement outside Bart's and there was nothing he could have done to stop it.

It doesn't stop him from dreaming, though, wondering what could have been or what could have happened. Survivor's guilt does that to people – gnaws at them from the inside out with all sorts of alternate endings. Outlandish alternate endings, too. John's dreamt of flying up and saving Sherlock several times. He wakes up wishing that he could, or that he'd been stronger, that he'd seen the paramedic's call as a false alarm.

John leaves the surgery with his customary good-bye to Sarah; he passes a former client of his and Sherlock's on his way out and smiles at her. She smiles, too, blue eyes sparkling.

* * *

In late autumn, Sherlock watches John visit his grave from a distance and tries to stop the tears.

* * *

There are few things that can make a soldier like John cry. He's seen so much, lived through so much. This is the man who sewed up crying comrades, stuffing in their guts in the heat of battle while praying to God that he won't be the next one injured. This is the man who survived a bullet wound to the shoulder, removing the bullet by himself with a knife dipped in scalding water. This is the man who now weeps before a cold black headstone, wishing that the man who supposedly dreamt below was aboveground and by his side.

"I was so alone," John tells the grave. "And I owe you so much."

He contemplates suicide – he's contemplated it many, many times since that morning. He wonders what it's like to pull the trigger on himself, to dream like Sherlock dreams now, to see the face of God.

* * *

Sherlock leaves a message on a woman's doorstep as he slips away into the night to find the second operative. He isn't there to watch her read the message with bewildered eyes.

Sherlock slits the throat of the second operative, feeling warm blood gush out and coat his fingers in scarlet incrimination. He takes care not to splatter too much, but when he washes his hands he scrubs furiously. Even after the scarlet fades down the drain Sherlock continues to wash. No amount of soap will make his hands clean, he thinks, no amount of lotion or cologne will make his hands not smell like blood.

He covers his steps again and runs into the early winter night, a fugitive.

* * *

_**Year Two**_

John meets her again at a New Year's party. She's in a party dress, but she looks as if she's searching for a nightgown.

Mary Morstan smiles at him; laughs when he kisses her hand. John dances with her, feeling the happiest he's felt in ages. She listens to him talk about Sherlock; she reminisces about the case that Sherlock had solved for her. She believes in him, and John thinks he's in love.

(He doesn't say so, and he certainly can't say he loves her. There's only one person he loves, and that person is supposedly dead.)

He takes her out to dinner, to long walks in the park, to the cinema. She lets him move his things into her flat; she supports him with smiles, kisses, tender touches. For once, he is the one who needs someone strong, and she is strong for him.

And she's so busy being strong that she forgets to tell him that she's dying.

* * *

Mycroft gives him the invitation like he gave him the therapist's files. Sherlock looks at the invitation, head bowed. He is unrecognisable, absolutely unrecognisable. His beard, which started out dark, has been dyed the same colour as his hair. He's even skinnier than he had been before.

"How's Lestrade?" Sherlock asks Mycroft, but Mycroft's eyes tell him everything. Lestrade is doing just as well as John, barely coping with his guilt and shame and anger at Sherlock and everyone else. Lestrade has known him long enough to believe in him; he's just angry that Sherlock had the audacity to leave John in such a state. Sherlock knows; he hates himself for it, too.

"His wife's finally filed for divorce," Mycroft says. Sherlock wants to tell Mycroft to look after Lestrade for him, but he can't bring himself to voice it. He lets it sink into his expression; Mycroft reads it and nods.

Sherlock looks back at the invitation. It's been three months since the New Year's party; he had been there and seen them dancing. He has seen them out on dates, and every time his heart beats a little more painfully at the smile on John's face, the smile that had seemed so permanently destroyed at this time last year.

Sherlock wonders what he could do to get John to smile at him like that again, and then he quashes those thoughts – he does that often, it seems – waves Mycroft away, and begins plotting the next hit.

* * *

John and Mary are married in the spring, when the flowers open their buds tentatively for a new beginning. She wears white muslin and clings onto him in happiness as well-wishers pelt them with petals and rice. His limp has abated, for the time being; it is only a mild twinge of discomfort. John feels that that's better than limping down the aisle, even if he misses not limping at all.

They dance to the song "A Thousand Years", but John thinks of someone else as he twirls Mary in and out of his arms. She is an excellent dancer; she makes up for what he lacks. As they dance, he sees the ginger-haired man from the pub in the crowd, wearing a suit so similar to Sherlock's that it catches his breath for a moment. Hope springs eternal, and he kills it before he ruins the moment with Mary.

If he shouts Sherlock's name that night instead of hers, she doesn't comment.

* * *

Sherlock looks through Mary Watson's medical records and figures that she only has eight months left to live. His heart breaks, but moreso for John than her. He's certain John wouldn't be able to cope with her passing on top of his, especially since she has brightened his life and resurrected his smile. Sherlock owes her more than he'd ever care to admit.

He watches them walk through Regent's Park on a summer afternoon, mild breeze stirring their hair. Hers is gold; his is wheat. They are the picture of a couple in love, and had Sherlock not known about her unhappy fate he would have slipped out of John's life at that very moment. He'd have left and tried his best not to look back.

But he doesn't, of course, because Mary Watson has an inoperable lump in her left breast and no amount of chemicals or radiation will help her at this stage; in eight months her body will succumb to itself. He wonders how John could not tell, and then he chalks it up to sentiment. Too lost in the rosy hues of newfound love, John Watson is blind to the death that will follow. It's a tragedy.

* * *

But John does see the signs, eventually. He does feel the lump, and he does ask. By that time it's already too late.

"How long?" he asks her one evening, as the crisp autumn wind blows leaves against their window and the rain falls steadily onto her roof. Mary cries; her tears streak down her face and her eyes are red but she still looks so beautiful in her sadness that John can't help but feel the prickles of tears in his own.

"Three left," she whispers against his lips, and that night they only hold each other, seeking comfort. She's already tried numerous alternative treatments, not wanting to suffer like her mother had. She's even gone into remission once or twice, one of those periods being when she met John. But now she is starting to weaken, and John tries his hardest to be strong. He really does.

But it's so hard, so hard and John just wants to throw down the gauntlet himself and give up. First Sherlock, now Mary. Surely he's seen enough death to last him for the rest of his life. Surely he's felt enough pain.

In a week or two, Mary's hair is gone and replaced by a golden wig, only a brutal mockery of the golden locks that John had loved to run his fingers through. She gets weaker and weaker as they pump more toxins into her body, and John can't stand to see her like this but he knows he has no choice. He loves her, in a way – not the same as he loved Sherlock, never the same as he loved Sherlock – and he will stay beside her until the bitter end.

In winter, when the winds are howling and the ice pierces through hearts and smiles, Mary checks into the hospital.

* * *

_**Year Three**_

Sherlock finishes his mission early. The body is already floating downstream, the incriminating papers stuffed into the pockets of its mackintosh. Bit by bit, the police will piece together the bodies and discover the organisation. The pigeonhole will be unearthed.

Sherlock walks past rows and rows of graffiti. Several of Sherlock's previous clients had taken to scrawling "I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES" in yellow paint up and down London; he'd spotted the trend as early as last year. But he makes no comment, even if he's seen John's handwriting amidst others.

He enters St. Bart's, the hospital where it all began. There is a book under his arm; John is away from his wife's bedside to take care of Harry. Harry is going through withdrawal treatments again, and poor John is spreading himself thin taking care of two sick people at once. So Sherlock will look after Mary for him.

She looks half-dead already, pale and frail against the starched hospital linens. Numerous machines keep her alive, but she doesn't seem intent to keep herself alive. She's already resigned to her fate; she's had eight months to do so.

Sherlock takes a seat by her bedside and takes out a book. Mary turns slightly, regarding him curiously. She's given up on the wig; a silky purple headscarf hides her baldness. Sherlock opens the book and begins to read.

"_Love and Bullets_," he says quietly, "by Nick Taylo."

"Oh good," she whispers, voice quieter than a lone reed. "I'd always wanted to read that."

Sherlock smiles. "_It started, like it always did, with a body_," he reads. "_This one was in the river, and I could tell she had once been beautiful. But this bullet and the fast current had taken that away from her. All we are, or that we think we are, all that we are certain about is taken away from us._"

"Mr. Holmes," she murmurs. "How could you?"

"You recognise me with this?" Sherlock asks quietly, gesturing to his disguise.

"Your voice is familiar," she sighs. "I'd always called it the jaguar-hiding-in-a-cello voice. All those years ago, when you took my case… I still remember."

"I'm glad to be of service."

Mary reaches out, grabs his hand weakly. "But how could you? How could you take away John's happiness by… faking your own death?"

"I had to," Sherlock replies simply. "I had to, to save him. If I didn't jump that day, he would have died."

"You abandoned John. You couldn't have at least told him you were alive?"

"I couldn't. He'd be better off without me, safer –"

"Don't tell me that he'd be better off without you in his life, Sherlock Holmes," Mary chides, but her gaze is weak. "Part of him died that day, and no matter how hard I tried these past months I could never get him to smile the way he does when he's with you."

"He smiles with you, though, and that's an accomplishment."

"It shouldn't be."

She has a point. Sherlock looks down at his book.

"What have you done in the meantime?" Mary asks quietly, seeking to fill the silence, to get the entire story while she still can. Sherlock shakes his head and says something about it not being suitable for him to tell at this time. He still has one person left to catch.

Mary sighs and leans back against the pillow in the room that she will die in, and nods for him to keep reading.

"_From the moment I opened my eyes, he is in my blood like cheap wine. Bitter and sweet, tinged with regret. I'll never be free of him, nor do I want to be. For he is what I am – all that is, should always be_."

Sherlock looks up from the book to meet Mary's eyes; there, he sees the bittersweet truth. Before all others, John has always loved him. John doesn't want to be free of him, no matter how hard Sherlock tries to walk away. And no matter how hard Mary tries, she will never take hold of enough of John's heart like Sherlock has.

"I'm glad to have seen you, Mr. Holmes," she says, taking his hand and squeezing. "Even if it'll be the last thing I do."

"I'm glad to see you again, Mrs. Watson," he replies, not removing his hand from hers.

"You have to take care of him, Sherlock. After I'm gone, he won't have anyone else."

"I know," Sherlock says simply. He knows now; he has to take care of John's heart. He has to return, and soon. Or else it'll be his own heart breaking in sync with a gunshot.

"Good." A ghost of a smile flickers onto her lips. "If you don't, I'll haunt you."

When Sherlock leaves the hospital, Mary is dreaming of happier days in her narrow hospital bed with _Love and Bullets_ on her bedside table. Sherlock thinks of her, thinks that he can see what made John fall for her.

Even in her dying moments, Mary Watson tries to be strong and it breaks even Sherlock's heart.

* * *

John's world ends again when the monitors flatline and Mary's hand is icy cold in his. The tears blur his vision; his heart feels as if it's been twisted into two by some invisible hand.

As Mary's face is covered with a sheet and moved, John stumbles after the doctors into the hallway and into the arms of a tall, now dark-haired man. The familiar stranger holds him tight as John cries, his voice achingly soothing and oh-so-familiar. John looks up; in his tear-stained vision he sees Sherlock swim in and out of focus.

He cries harder and harder, until the other man's dark coat is almost soaked. But he doesn't let go, not now.

"Sherlock?" he asks quietly, hiccoughing slightly.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock's voice affirms. "I'm here."

And aside from them, the hospital corridor is quiet.


End file.
